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“Hi, my name is Myla Pleasant. Is Sunny available?” Myla asked politely.

Damn, Sunny has an answering service. Being a restaurateur must be paying well, Myla thought.

“If Sunny gave you my number, then I already know what this call is about,” the woman answered politely.

Myla was caught off guard. That was a response that she had not expected. She looked at the number Sunny had written down, then at the number she dialed. Something was not adding up.

“I’m sorry. I think I dialed the wrong number.”

“I can assure you that you dialed the correct number. My name is Hazel, and I’m assuming you’re calling pertaining to my son Dante.”

Myla dropped the phone. The sound of it hitting the hardwood floor echoed louder than it should have, or maybe everything just felt louder now. Her heartbeat, her breathing, the rush of blood pounding in her ears.

Dante’s mother.

Of all the people in the world, of all the possible outcomes of that phone call, that had never crossed her mind.

For a brief second, she considered leaving the phone right where it was. Let the call end. Let this moment disappear like it never happened. But it had happened.

Myla bent down and picked up the phone. If she walked away now, she knew she would spend the rest of the day, or longer, thinking about Hazel.

“Myla, are you still there?” Hazel’s voice was calm and patient, as if she already knew what had happened.

“Yes. I-I’m sorry,” Myla stuttered. “I dropped my phone.”

“I figured as much,” Hazel replied. A weird combination of sadness and amusement filled her response.

Myla sat on the phone, lost for words. She didn’t know how to proceed. Nowhere in any of her textbooks, clinicals, or peer reviews had she been taught to speak to the mother of the man that was slowly tearing her world apart.

“I’m sorry. Is this a joke? Dante said his mother was deceased,” Myla admitted as tears filled her eyes. She could feel the straitjacket slowly tightening around her. She knew before she got off this phone that she’d more than likely need some sort of sedative.

Without another word, the call ended. The incoming FaceTime from the same number made Myla’s body tremble. She didn’t want to answer the call. She felt like seeing the caller would send her to a place that she could not mentally recover from. The ringing ended, and the caller called back.

Myla was shaking like a leaf. With trembling fingers, she answered the call and screamed. She placed her hands over her eyes and sobbed like a child who believed a monster was under their bed.

Hazel’s heart broke. She hated that her child had the power to reduce a person to this.

“Myla?”

“He said you died. Died during childbirth. He said his grandmother raised him, then she died,” Myla admitted as she looked at the woman on the screen. This woman looked like she ate money for breakfast.

She was beautiful. The same rich mahogany skin tone as Dante, high cheekbones, and gray hair so shiny that it looked polished. Dominique Deveraux had nothing on Hazel Helgard.

“Technically, that part is true. My pregnancy with Malachi was high-risk. I suffered from Maternal Cardiac Arrest and flatlined for fifteen minutes. But I serve a mighty God, and he said it was not my time to go. That’s why I’m still here,” Hazel said as she looked at the photo of her eldest son on her desk. There were no photos of Dante.

Myla’s grip tightened around the phone. Something inside her, something that was already cracked and fragile, shifted further out of place.

“Mrs. Helgard, I’m…I’m sorry. I’m normally prepared for hard conversations and uncomfortable discussions. But this one, I’m honestly not prepared for. I was trying to reach Sunny, and this is more than I bargained for,” Myla admitted truthfully.

“Apologies aren’t necessary. I know you didn’t call to speak to me. How could you? You thought that I was dead. You’re not the first woman to receive my number and called looking for answers,” Hazel said simply.

That answer sent a chill down Myla’s spine. “What?” The word came out in a croaking sound, because it’s all Myla had to give.

“I’m not going to ask you to relive anything that has been said. But I want you to think about the things that you’ve dealt with since meeting Dante. Think of all the things you’ve lost, whether work, family, or friends. Think of how he tries to punish or humiliate you for disagreeing with him. How many times have simple misunderstandings led to a constant barrage of insults, and everything being your fault? Does any of that sound familiar?” Hazel asked.

A tear fell down Myla’s face. It did sound familiar; way too familiar, in fact. She instantly thought about the text messages she received before she dialed the number she thought belonged to Sunny.

Text from Myla: Hey, can we talk?